


The Consulting Artist

by susiephalange



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Artist!Reader, Artist!Sherlock, F/M, Fluff, sherlock is mean to meena, sherlock is mean to mostly everyone but this is no exception, shy!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:23:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6907117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader is signed up for art classes with a class-A asshole artist named Mr Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Consulting Artist

He was apparently the best and worst at what he did. You could believe the gossip though; it wasn't vicious at all. He was tall, proud, and frowned more than he spoke words of guidance. Mr Sherlock Holmes, one of the greatest artists of this century, was an asshole - a talented asshole, which you had signed yourself up to have lessons with. With other people!

Why? You demanded yourself. You were an introvert, as reserved as they possibly could come. And watching Mr Holmes completely deconstruct Sally Donovan's and Anderson's canvases as 'sloppy' and 'lacked technique' and then you overheard him at Meena's painting, "What in hell's name are you supposedly painting, a cow?"

"No sir, it's uh, a cat - my cat," Meena stuttered. You wanted to see the cow/cat and support her, but instead, you focused on your tragic painting.

Tragic it was. You'd started painting your late grandmother from memory, her crinkled skin filled with shadow, but then realised once you had reached the bust size that your paint had somehow turned too runny (you suspected the giggling boy with the Irish accent in front of you for that one) and it had begun dripping like roots from a tree.

So, you considered your prospects; running out of the gallery before the critical Mr Holmes caught sight of you, scraping the canvas for another...or transforming the 'root' like line of drips into your family tree.

"Shut up Anderson," reprimanded Mr Holmes. His voice almost ran straight through you, like a ghost - and you made up your mind. Family tree it was.

You'd just finished panting Uncle Uberto and Aunt Harriet when you heard a huff behind you.

Scared, you didn't turn to acknowledge him. Your system raced with fear of judgement instead of blood and oxygen for a moment and then after a beat, stated, "You've not been this pensive with the others, Mr Holmes."

He made a noise in his throat, a noise which meant I know that, and why are you asking stupid questions somehow at once.

But then all he said was:

"Are you using a reference picture for any of these?"

Defly you shook your head. "I'm just remembering, Mr Holmes...I left their pictures in my car." Uncomfortable at the tension between the grumpy teacher and you, you added, "I was going to use them."

Mr Holmes made that noise again. "Alright." He nodded, and was off to frown at the mischievous Irish boy who had started flinging paint across the gallery.

You let out the breath you'd been keeping in unwarranted and wondered what had just happened. Was that remark almost a compliment? You glanced to your canvas to question if it were - compared to Meena's now branded cow cat, it was pretty decent.

After that, your brush seemed to fly across the canvas, and by the end of the day's session with the dreaded yet brilliant Mr Sherlock Holmes, your family portrait was nearly done; almost all the three generations and their children were painted, and you couldn't help but be a tad proud of it.

"These works will be hanging up in here for the public's further judgement in a week's time," Mr Holmes boomed once the clock read four o'clock on the wall at the front. "You're all free to leave."

As the other art students fled the gallery, you overheard their comments of "I'm glad that's over!" and "I won't let mum sign me up for anymore of those classes" and "what a prick!". Whilst everyone dashed out, you took your time to clean up your brushes and gather your things.

"You're still here?"

You turned to see Mr Holmes bent over a pile of paperwork on a desk at the front, frowning.

"Pardon?" You wondered.

"You're still here," he repeated, this time stating the fact rather than questioning it. "Nobody really stays afterwards."

"I - I noticed you didn't critique me like the other kids, and I kind of wanted to ask why."You shrugged, gesturing to the still laid out plastic mats that were spattered with colour and footprints, "and then I sort of felt sorry for you having to clean up this mess - I sort of assumed you cleaned this mess up, I mean."

Mr Holmes cleared his throat. "You don't need to," he spoke, "Isn't there someone waiting to pick you up?"

You shook your head, "No, sir, I'm taking the tube home - you know, there's always a train after the next - and yeah."

A silence followed you, and turning awkwardly to the mess, began to move the easels to the side, and lifting the paint mat. You worked quickly, gathering the dumped paint brushes and putting the pallets together to wash.

"Allow me," you heard in your ear. "..."

You felt a blush course your cheeks and yielded the pile in your arms to your art teacher. "It's uh, _______. _________ ________."

"Well, ______, you've done well." Mr Holmes commended.

"With the cleaning or the paint, Mr Holmes?" You laughed nervously, tucking a flyaway strand of (h/c) (h/l) behind an ear.

"Everything," he smiled.

You knew that was more than a compliment; he was a man who criticised the smallest of details and ignored everything he didn't care for.

"Th-thank you, sir," you smiled.

"Please, call me Sherlock," he corrected, "and would you like to come out for coffee with me sometime?"

You beamed. "I'm sure we can work something out."

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


End file.
